


How Sapphique Won The Songs

by Ori_Cat



Series: Sapphique Tales [2]
Category: Incarceron Series - Catherine Fisher
Genre: Board Games, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Trickster Tale, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ori_Cat/pseuds/Ori_Cat
Summary: A tale in which is told how Sapphique won all his songs.





	How Sapphique Won The Songs

Once upon a time, the world was absent of any song, for they all lay in the ownership of one man. This man had earned for himself great power of arms and great store of wealth, and he was a Winglord of great fame and renown. It was said that he kept the songs safe from all that would steal them in concealed in a box of cedar, that was stored in a box of oak, that was sealed in a chest of iron, and this he kept locked away in the innermost chamber of the rooms that he had possession of, behind many strong doors with bolts and hinges of steel. And it was also said that he would suffer none to hear or even to set eye on these songs, because he prized them above all other of his wealth, and furthermore he knew that a song, once taken and sung, can never be returned to the darkness of obscurity. 

It came to pass that in his endless journeying Sapphique heard of this Lord, and he heard of the songs that he kept hid. And Sapphique was greatly angered at this, for he believed that the power and the beauty of the songs ought to be set free (such as is possible in the Prison) for all to hear, and to understand, and to love. Such power and glory should not be in the hands of only one person, he thought. And so Sapphique set out, to find the dwelling place of the Winglord and to take from him, not by force (for Sapphique had never had any strength of arms to his name), but, hopefully, by guile, the songs in which lay the hope of all people that live under the Prison’s Eyes, and to share them among all. 

He came to the gates of the Winglord and requested with him an audience, and so was led through the many doors into the inner chamber where the Lord sat upon his throne. And Sapphique said, “Oh mighty Lord, the tales of your glory and your power run throughout all the Wings. And I have heard them, and thus I have come, hearing that you own all the songs in the world. I would ask that you share them to the people, or give them to me, that I may do so in your stead.” 

The Winglord answered Sapphique, “Who are you that thinks to demand anything of me? That which I keep, I shall keep for myself only. Take your demand and begone, now, or you will die here.” 

“Then it need not be a demand,” said Sapphique. “Shall I then win them from you? Shall you then set me a quest that I must achieve? Shall you set a contest at which I must best you? Or something else? For without that which I have come for, I will not leave your halls save by force.” 

Now the Winglord was very proud, and he believed himself the most cunning of all that had ever lived within the Prison, and he thought that nobody would ever match his skill at gaming and at strategy. So without fear he said, “Very well, since you have amused me. And your bravery in even asking does you credit. So I say that if you can best me in a game of strategy I will give to you the songs that you have asked for. But,” he continued, “should I be the victor, I too will take from you whatever I choose to demand. For each of us must have some prize.” 

This challenge Sapphique accepted. So the game was set, and the pieces laid out in their rows, light and dark. Sapphique and the Winglord each took their places across the board, and it is said that the Winglord took the light side and Sapphique the dark. Very strange they looked in that shining hall, the Lord clad in his fine robes, ringed and braceleted, his shining mail like the brightness of a flame, and Sapphique wayworn and barefoot before him. And Sapphique knew the price of each of the pieces resting upon that board could purchase his head many times over. 

What game they played is up to you. Some say it was chess, and some checkers, some senet or Go or tafl, each according to his own choice and the games with which he is familiar. Whatever it was, they played a long time, the pieces moving in their intricate patterns, but in the end the Winglord came out the victor. 

“As my prize for this victory,” said the Winglord, for he had heard the tales of Sapphique that went out across the Prison, and of his abilities and his works, “I will have that Key that I hear tell that you carry, which can undo any lock and open any door. For I greatly desire such a thing.” 

And although he was very loath to part with the crystal Key, Sapphique could not flaunt the rules of the game that he had himself laid out. So he dug the Key out from his coat, and gave it to the Winglord, who took it and hid it away within his own robes. And when the key was hidden the Winglord looked back up at Sapphique. 

“I would advise you,” he said, “to forfeit now. For the next time I will not be so merciful.” 

“I will not forfeit,” Sapphique answered. “We keep playing.” 

The pieces were reset, and a second game was begun. This game lasted longer than the first, for both now had a sense of their opponent’s strategy and sought to refine their own even as they played. But in the end, for a second time, the Winglord was victorious. 

“As my prize for this victory,” said the Winglord, “I will have that Glove that I hear tell you wear, the one that gives you power to rival the Prison itself. For such a thing I would have much use for.” 

And although he was even less willing to part with the Glove than with the Key, Sapphique was still bound by the rules of the game. So he removed the Glove that he wore, and gave it to the Winglord, who took it from him for his own. And when the Glove had been exchanged the Winglord looked back up at Sapphique. 

“I would advise you a second time,” he said, “to forfeit now. For the next time I will not be so merciful.” 

“I will not forfeit,” Sapphique answered. “We keep playing.” 

And so the pieces were again reset, and a third game was begun. This game lasted longer than either that had been played before it, and it was hardly contested. But at the last the Winglord was a third time victorious. 

“And as my prize for this victory,” he said, “I will have that silver tongue of yours, the one that has allowed you to trick so many and to win out over other Lords and monsters and Prison alike. For although your Key and Glove are valuable, I perceive that any power you have lies not with them but there with you.” And the Winglord put forth all his powers of sorcery, and he drew Sapphique’s voice from his throat and stilled his tongue within his mouth, and he could not speak a word nor indeed make any sound when this was done. 

“It is not my wish,” said the Lord, “that I should be forced to slay you here, and that you not return to your home or your people.” And for the third time he urged him to forfeit, saying, “If you are as lucky as the tales make you out to be, you shall still be able to regain in time the value of what you have lose, or things similar. But your life, once lost, cannot be regained. You have been a worthy opponent, and neither I nor any other will hold you in contempt if you yield.” 

But Sapphique indicated that he still would play further, and the pieces were replaced on the board. Even longer and even harder played was this game than any before it, each player stacking feints upon feints, traps upon traps, and nets of strategy that were wound more tightly than spiders’ webs. Their fingers darted from square to square and piece to piece, and many were knocked and replaced as the endless gambits piled higher. And at the end of this game Sapphique won, and so he saved his life, and for his prize he indicated that he would fain have back the voice that had been taken but a few hours before, and it was returned. 

And so it continued, until the sixth game had passed and Sapphique had won back the Glove and the Crystal for himself as well, and each was at the same position that he had been in in the beginning. And Sapphique said, “Shall the seventh time pay for all, then?” 

The Winglord would have, if he had had his wish, refused and driven Sapphique from his gates with sword and firelock if necessary, for he no longer had any surety that he would win and that the songs would not be taken from him forever. But his servants and followers were all around him, and he knew that if he did so he would be branded coward, and dishonourable, and his pride would not allow that. So the Winglord agreed, and they played their last game, each in the knowledge that Sapphique would have the songs if he won and the Winglord the head from Sapphique’s shoulders were it he. 

And in the end, Sapphique was victorious. And so the Winglord, to his shame and bitter rue, was forced to order his servants to take him to the doors of steel, and open the chest of iron, and the box of oak, and to remove the box of cedar that was within, and this was placed in Sapphique’s hands. 

Sapphique bowed, and thanked the Winglord deeply for his hospitality, and left free through the front gates with the box. Until Lightsoff he walked without stopping, for although he did not know why he was driven by some uneasy sense to place as much distance between himself and the areas the Winglord ruled as he could. But when the lights flicked off and darkness fell over the Prison, there Sapphique stopped, and he made his camp at the side of the road, and lit his fire, and he unfastened the latch of the box, and lifted the lid, and looked inside. 

Up to the rim the box was full, and the songs shone in his firelight, each transparent but for its edges that gleamed in reds and purples and greens and in all colours of the rainbow, shifting and waving at the slightest of touches. Long he could have sat there and just watched the colours dance upon the songs, bright in the box’s shadowed interior as the stars are in the sky, but Sapphique knew that his time could not be wasted, and that having found the songs he could no longer make excuse not to free them for one second more. So he took each song in his hand, one by one, glistening and soft like the jellyfish that dwell in the oceans of the Empty Wings, and each he devoured, and the songs entered into him and filled him, and he knew all their power and their sorcery and the hope of men. 

Far behind him, the Winglord had sat long in his thought, and had brooded, and his bitterness had turned to anger. And changing his mind, he summoned his servants, and he ordered them to pursue Sapphique, and capture him, so that he might be brought to the Winglord’s justice and the songs be returned to the Lord, who considered himself their rightful owner. So out rode his warriors, with sword and torch and iron horses with tireless steps, and they spread out upon all the roads that led to the Winglord’s gate in the pursuit. 

But they found no trace of him before Lightson, and then they came upon the cedar box discarded by the wayside and they knew that Sapphique had been that way. But he had already extinguished his fire and had gone ahead, and so with all the haste that they could make the warriors rode along the trail after him. And even as the warriors rode upon him Sapphique turned to face them and he sang his first song, of warm light and dark loam, of chlorophyll and growing things, and brambles sprouted from the trail through the hard-packed dust, and growing quickly to a great height they blocked the riders in their approach. The pursuit for a moment halted, Sapphique turned and fled away as quickly as he could manage. 

To no avail the riders sought for a way that they might pass through, or come around the sides of the dense tangle and so come at Sapphique again. But they found none, and at the end were forced to take their swords and cut themselves a path through the sharp and grasping thorns with great labour. And when the path was cut they remounted their horses and continued in their pursuit, and not far after they caught up with him a second time, for their horses could far outpace any man. 

Thus at bay again Sapphique sang a second song, this one of grinding gears and red rust and the crushing weight of earth, and before the path the walls slid, and gates came down and doors and latticeworks of iron bars. Machinery sprouted from the walls and ceilings and floor, and the path was again blocked by a barricade of iron. 

The Winglord’s men could not find a means to come around the barricade, and nor could they pick the locks. But at the end they battered their way through, metal sheets bending and screws and pins slipping under the force of their assault, and they continued in their pursuit, and before he had gone much further they caught up with Sapphique again. 

But he sang for them a third song, this one of the greatest power yet, and this one was full of velvet black and longing and of the void between the stars which cannot be overcome and which holds and sustains all, and by the power of that song a chasm was opened between Sapphique and the warriors. Wide enough it was that it could not be jumped or bridged, and deep enough it was that the bottom could not be seen or plumbed, and it was filled with endless dark. And the warriors were left stranded on one side, for there was no way they could cross or demolish this final obstacle, and on the other side Sapphique turned and fled away into the mazes of tunnels within the Prison’s components. 

Thus did he escape, with both his life and with the treasure of songs that he had won, and as he continued on his endless journeying through the Prison he shared them freely, with everyone he met. And a song once sung cannot be unsung, and it grows with every pair of ears that hears it and with every tongue that repeats it, and so the songs spread, like a growing tree that divides each branch into two and two again, and soon the whole Prison was aware of them. The songs that Winglord lost are still sung today, in every passage and every Wing, in memory of Sapphique, who after this exploit was and ever shall be known as the Giver of Song.


End file.
